


a symphony for old crows

by 2oh7am



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, They're all kinda ooc, author hates describing food so he doesn't, bonding over sucky parents, it's also a fairly minor relationship, its in the modern era tho, lapslock, musician dream, no beta we die like men, not really soulmates au, sometimes, tech ceo george, the author is also a techno simp, the author is projecting, the dream/wilbur tag is onesided, theres some VERY onesided george/techno, vague royalty au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2oh7am/pseuds/2oh7am
Summary: "i'm going home in a few days."a baited pause and he hears his breath hitch tears well up in those soft green eyes he's spent countless hours staring at, threatening to fall down beneath the ceramic mask.in that moment george wishes he hadn't let his sister insist he take a break from his company, that he'd never come the château de rose d'argent and never met dream, just so he'd never feel the way he does right now. pained. heart burning and guilt pooling in his stomach.he wishes he'd never fallen in love with a man six feet under.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	a symphony for old crows

**Author's Note:**

> i don't speak french and had to use google translate, my apologies to any french speakers. this first chapter is gogy centric! the next chapter is gonna be the longest.  
> -  
> please leave feedback in the comments! this is my first fanfic :)  
> -  
> if any distress is expressed over this by any of the involved parties i will not hesitate to remove the work. i write purely for my own satisfaction and fantasy-fulfillment.

a crusade of waves rush the cliffside, cruel and impeding with each echoing boom. the sound is rough and pries ever-so-slightly on the door; heavy metal quietly aching in the wind as the mellow sky begins to twist into something bitter. jagged crimson races through the waves, pulsing through the ever-changing tide as the sun settled into the crook of the earth’s neck, sinking as the clouds rumbled. painstaking brushes of vermillion and ocherous yellows fade into deep violets that explode with memories of past lives despite the sagging clouds that cried of vitriol and wrath. 

beneath it all fat drops of rain spray the grass with ruin, falling like heavy stones against wilting paint and old concrete. flecks of red flutter in the building current of the wind as more concrete is laid bare under the storm. a lone lighthouse on a crumbling cliff, a yellowing light straining to survive the inky rain.

A cold hand presses against the even colder glass, ghosts of fog breathing against the smooth surface. polyester scrapes against a fragile neck as a head cranes to peek out the window. the rain is loud - louder than it has ever been in his ears and fighting the thoughts in his head for attention. the scenery is nothing but a fading jewel of time, gone in seconds yet remaining still and unmoving.

peeled paint and thundering tides melt into nothing as the car rolls along the empty roads and the beacon waves a mournful goodbye to the little yellow cab. 

he turns his eyes away and his numb fingers rest in his lap, twitching.

he had received a phone call days earlier from a lawyer telling him of a property he had inherited from his estranged parents hidden in the french countryside - an aging château nestled in fields of grapevine and rolling hills. he doesn’t know much of the estate, wine being a foreign concept to him despite  _ silver rain _ being the core of his father’s business, with his own tech branch beginning to take off. 

_ 404 industries _ was a passion project, a coding service that was beginning to make a name for itself in the industry with game development being its backbone. he chuffs at the thought of  _ 404 industries _ \-  **his** company, staring at his hands - he’s so far from brighton now, vaguely missing the bustle of his office. his personal assistant and sister had insisted on him taking a break despite george, himself, not being a workaholic.  _ ‘you need a break’ _ this and  _ ‘you’ve done so much already’ _ that, and he had caved like a poorly made soufflé. 

he’s abruptly pulled from his thoughts as the driver turns in his seat to face him. “mr. cadieux, we’ve arrived at château de rose d'argent.”

the english is heavy on the man’s tongue, forking over words in a thick accent. george thanks him, exiting the cab and popping the trunk for his luggage. he hadn’t noticed the change of scenery, nor the violent storm becoming nothing but a distant memory while trapped in his own thoughts. 

the air is crisp - dew hanging in every breath as he hauls the cases from the trunk and places them on the rough gravel road. he was at the front gates of the estate, the taxi being unable to go any further. despite the distance he can still see the imposing building, barely making out the vast pillars and timeless architecture. the creation had been restored years ago, not a stone now looking aged. wide grass fields stretch for acres before meeting the edges of forests and vineyards. 

he’s about to pull out his phone when a sleek black car rolls up to the edge of the property, halting at his side. a tall man steps out, smiling. he’s dressed in a grey tailored suit, collar high enough to rest just beneath his adam’s apple and a pale blue pocket square peeking from his chest pocket. whisps of gray hair frame his fragile eyes and his cheeks are sunken with years of age. the half rim glasses are the most familiar, resembling that of the pair his grandfather wore. 

“master george, it’s a pleasure to see you again. when mistress adelie spoke of you coming to the cadieux estate i was thrilled.” his voice is a smooth baritone, resembling a soothing balm on a scorched wound. he can vaguely recall the man before him, brown eyes squinting as he tries to remember, but perks up at the mention of his older sister. the other picks up on his confusion, laughing quietly. “forgive me if this is out of place, master george, but allow me to introduce myself. my name is lucien bernard, loyal servant to the cadieux family for many years. the last you saw of me was when you were three.”

george gapes slightly, far too distracted by his accent to wrap his head around the speech. lucien spoke in clear english, the drawls of french nearly absent from his voice. while it was a welcome change from a language he couldn’t speak, it still felt strange. 

“i-, of course. thank you, lucien. my apologies for not recognising you,” he coughs out, plastering a smile on his face. the man shows no signs of discomfort, unlike george, and instead reaches for his luggage.

“don’t worry yourself, young master. it’s understandable. allow me to show you the true extent of château de rose d'argent.” lucien gestures to the car, sliding the handles of his luggage from beneath george’s hands and carrying them to the trunk with ease. george only responds with a simple ‘yes’ before getting in the car.

the leather is familiar, resembling the seats of his own car back in brighton. lucien thankfully restricts the conversation to the history of the estate, reciting facts as if he had been practicing his whole life. he tunes out, far too fixated on the creeping vines and lush topiaries, eyes tracing each leafed curve. beyond the greenery lies the true gem of the estate, the home itself, that towers over the plains - seemingly stretching to grasp the sky. two grand staircases cage a working fountain, curling upward to the arched doorway. three floors of high windows and gorgeous carvings etched into the stone, each an exact copy of the last. white roses bloom and curl into the rays of the sunlight, delicate petals unfurling into broad fields.

his mind resurfaces by the time the car comes to a stop, having finally reached the end of the long driveway to the immaculate staircases. he’s glad to have missed the talk of vineyards and overpriced wine, listening with keen ears as lucien began to regale in the history of the estate.

“and of course, young master, while the cadieux estate has belonged to your family for quite some time now, château de rose d'argent once belonged to old royalty.” lucien speaks in an almost monotone hum yet reflecting enough emotion to distract him from the sophisticated air he carried. “it had been the vacation home of the d’archambeau’s but was ultimately abandoned after the crown prince commit suicide. your grandfather took great care to restore such a beautiful home, such a shame that there is more new stone than original.”

george sputters, head snapping to look at lucien. “suicide?”

lucien hums in response, turning the car off. “the d’archambeau’s never told the public where their son had passed, only that on the night of his twenty-first (21) birthday he was found dead in his room while the guests at his party danced into the night without any knowledge of what happened.” a brief pause. “ enough of the gloom, young master. let’s head inside.”

george mulls over the new information in silence, merely nodding as his thoughts raced. he was staying in the home of not only dead royalty but suicidal royalty.  _ astounding _ . why had his family loved this home so much? his legs work independently of his brain, following lucien up the many stairs while continuing to remain trapped in his head. 

he can see why his family has loved this place despite its history, though, with its luxurious hallways and paintings of dead kings. furniture resigned to only the highest of nobility, wealth pouring from the seams of the woven canvases. a touch of modernity between the royal fashion, hints of new life in the house’s old walls. comfort mingles with function in every room, each reminding george just how  _ wealthy _ his family was. there are weaves of gold in the wood of the chairs and the marble of the sleek countertops in the kitchen. another gorgeous staircase leading up to the other two floors, no doubtedly more splendid than the first. a part of him falls in love with the old walls and the rusticly modern hybrid decor, with the love and care poured into the foundations. 

he’s left to explore on his own after he’s lead to his room - a large room with cream-colored walls and dark flooring. velvet curtains hang on the sides of the expansive windows, tied back with thick rope. a closet with more room for clothing than he had family members hides behind dark brown doors and another leading to a bathroom with just about anything he could’ve asked for. he’s far too enthralled with the sudden lavish home to feel any discontent for the amount of money the renovations must have cost - _ the upkeep of such an estate _ \- or the amount of space he would never run out of just standing in the bedroom,  _ his _ bedroom. 

at home he lives a more compact space, the only times he splurged being on equipment for his work or small gifts. the château de rose d'argent is far larger than what he’s used to. 

the loneliness strikes him then - the world had always felt so much emptier with more space. there are no tufts of fur on his sheet from his beloved cat ( _ there hasn’t been for a long time now, he reminds himself) _ and no multicolored lights from his pc setup. he couldn’t even call his best friend - nick had been adamant on him relaxing this time and that he should only call him in the case of emergency. he looks down at his computer bag, eying the casing that held his laptop. if he even  _ thought  _ about running minecraft right now his cpu would probably explode. it was only good for running code but he’d rather be caught dead than have to face adelie if she found out he was working on his vacation. 

his sister is a wildfire when angered, words prying at the skin like claws and tearing into the opposing argument. she’s a powerhouse in business as well, fire becoming sugar as she fought for what she wanted. never one to lose, adelie was the reason why his father’s business had taken off even farther than it already had.

he shifts away from the thought of her and runs a hand over the soft bedding, sizing up the sheer size of the bed. he could probably fit five other people on it and still have room for more. he looks through the windows at the vast vineyards, specks of people wearing white strolling through the isles. a few birds drift in and out of view, sometimes landing on the ground or disappearing into the trees. he bookmarks the view for later.

dinner that night is more filling than it usually is, far from his usual sandwich and juice combination. lucien offers him company, chatting with him late into the night about fading memories from his childhood. he’s offered flan dessert of some sort - which he accepts without question - before lucien reminds him that he should get some sleep. he nods quietly, deciding on a shower before he’d ultimately settle in for his first night.

the water that runs in rivets down his back is warm, washing away the day’s grime and exhaustion. he had been sat in the damn taxi for so long that his bottom ached at the thought of sitting for longer than a few minutes and dinner hadn’t helped. pulsing waves of tiredness getting to him as he shut the water off and readied himself for bed.

his own face in the mirror feels foreign, skin less bright than it usually was. it had been a long time since he had had a break, he recalls. the bags under his eyes are small but there nonetheless and a slouch that had once been trained out of him. his teeth feel duller as well, despite never being that sharp. he hums as he pushes his hair back, already partially dried from his towel. 

sometimes he can see why the media loves him so much; the gentle doe eyes that whispered of danger, lithe chest and toned muscles, the fullness of his lips that hid the scars from nervous biting. soft cheekbones that flowed into a sharper jaw and vague dimples. he tries to smile at himself, flinching as he watches himself. george contemplates giving up before trying once more, attempting to pull off his signature cheeky smile. his lips quirk slightly and he flashes his teeth and for a second he understands why he had landed a modeling gig in his earlier years.

he laughs to himself as he brushes his teeth, wiping his mouth with a towel when he was finished.  _ ‘god i’m so dumb.’ _

george falls asleep on plush pillows that night, unaware of the lullaby singing in his ears. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ adept fingers play for deaf ears, an endless chorus spilling from tired hands. the sun rises in the wide window to his left, blazing oranges turning soft blond hair into a fiery red. a body so weightless it can’t even be seen rests on the piano bench, striking chords on broken strings. _

_ old french spills out of chapped lips. _

  
  
  
  
  


george doesn’t wake to the alarm clock on his bedside, rather the beams of sun peeking through curtains he had stupidly left open the night before. he shuffles around trying to go back to sleep before ultimately giving up. the bleariness is slowly blinked out of his eyes as he sits up, skin warm beneath satin sheets.

it's not as silent as he expected it to be, the rich chimes of an expensive piano quietly singing in his ears as he gets ready for his day. while not his usual morning routine playlist, he could get used to the mellow sound. a rough baritone joins the piano as the sun crests over the eastern hills and is just as enchanting as it is scratchy. 

the music is short-lived, however, ending as the estate wakes up. lucien unsurprisingly already had breakfast ready, having left it on the dining table with a note explaining he was to review the property today and couldn’t accompany him. george frowned at the neatly written note, setting aside the paper as he slowly ate whilst ruminating over what he was to do today. 

“i suppose i could explore?” he murmurs to himself, mumbling through a mouthful of fruit. it was only his second day - first, if you didn’t count the afternoon prior - and he already missed typing away at his computer. the business calls not so much, but missing work nonetheless. 

his fingers twitch as he walks around the property, itching to occupy them with. the scenery is almost enough to distract him with its lush greenery and clean air. each breath felt liberating and  _ clean _ , a far cry from the air in the inner city. countless workers wave at him as he passes before going to what they were doing, usually offering a greeting in french to which he couldn’t respond.  _ what would they think if he, a frenchman, couldn’t speak french? _

a woman in blue overalls waves him over, exclaiming something in french he could barely pick up on. she doesn’t turn away from him after she finishes, rather, she seems to wait for him.  _ “maître george! quel spectacle bienvenu pour les yeux fatigués! venez goûter un peu de votre vin!” _

he stares at her, dumbfounded but hoping he was right in choosing to walk over to her. she looks to be in her thirties and sunkissed, smile radiating joy and the worn frays of her uniform feeling homely. george can barely make out her name -  _ alyssa - _ beneath it all as she chats with him excitedly, leading him into a small building. the temperature drops significantly as she leads him to what seems to be a tasting room before ducking behind a counter. 

the room is much less lavish than the château but minimalistically so, leather couches with soft pillows pushed against the wall and a glass coffee table in the room’s center. a few potted plants in the corners and a wine rack behind a smooth marble counter.

alyssa pops back out with a glass in hand, offering the red liquid to george. he accepts it with a smile and  _ merci _ before sipping the beverage. it's sweet enough to have him humming, satisfying his sweet tooth while nipping at his tongue with a hint of spice. she leaves him with a bottle, waving as she left with more french slipping out of her mouth and into the sun.

george eyes the bottle, glass swirling in his palm as he contemplates having more. a husky laugh bubbles from his throat as he reaches for the thin neck, pouring another glass. 

“it’s not like father will miss a bottle,” he chortles, savoring the alcohol resting on his tongue. when had he had time to drink alone recently? he swallows another gulp when his throat feels dry. a giggle starts to build up in his throat -  _ god _ he’d always been so bad at holding his alcohol. the buzz behind his eyes was starting to drown him, no longer the pleasant little whisper in his ears,

george stumbles when he goes to stand, eying the bottle uneasily. three-quarters of the bottle was gone and he  _ knew _ if he tried to put it away he’d break it. he feels bad leaving the glass on the table but putting it away would be disastrous. despite being halfway out of his mind he had figments of rationality left. he leans against the doorway once he makes it there, loopy smile on his face as his enchroma glasses sat quirked upward on the bridge of his nose from the uneven pressure. 

the walk back to the main house is  _ much _ longer than he remembers, throat uncomfortably dry and vision woozy. the sun feels so good on his back that he contemplates laying in the grass - where was he anyway? no one would mind if he laid down...right?

a gloved hand intrudes his little fantasy, waving back and forth as another braces itself against his back. 

“oh, uhm,  _ maître george _ , _ est-ce que ça va _ ?” the voice is uneasy and rumbly, setting a little fire off in his chest. a face comes into view, causing him to grumble as he blinks to clear up his vision. the mystery face has sharp eyes with brown eyes so concentrated they might as well have been red. pointed canines that are longer on the bottom row and a jawline that softened at the edges. “god,  _ fuck _ , please don’t tell me the head of the house is  _ broken _ , i already deal with enough shit from the twins-”

the face disappears from his foggy vision. george can only hum quietly, staring at the man with wide eyes. the man is so  _ tall _ and could probably toss him across the yard without a second thought. 

“do you even speak english? can you understand me?  _ bonjour? _ ” his accent is funny, george thinks, giggling to himself. “what’s so funny?” his voice has a little bite to it now, leaning back down to be at eye level with him.

“i don’t speak french,” george slurs, glasses beginning to slide off his nose from how uneven they were. he has a brief moment of clear thinking - he knows he’s attractive, maybe he can convince the guy to take him back home? his face flushes from the heat;  _ when had it gotten so hot _ ? “take me home? please?”

the man stutters, pausing for a second before backing away. he plasters a smug look on his face that shouldn’t look as good as it does. “i’m pretty sure you’re my boss, sir.”

“just take me there then.” there’s enough of a pout in his voice to get the other to cave, grumbling as he offered a hand to lead him. 

“no funny business, you’ll fall flat if i don’t lead you there,” he snaps, mumbling under his breath about having to get back to his...horses? “i’m dave by the way.”

george tries the name in his mouth, tongue feeling more like a blob than a working organ. “hah,  _ dave _ .” what a funny name.

dave doesn’t say anything else. what a spoilsport. 

the grass starts to look like waves beneath his feet as his head swims, tripping over himself as he stumbles behind the other.  _ wait- why is the grass getting closer? _

  
  
  
  
  


_ a rough key change, the briefest wince in a shoulder when the wrong key is struck. it starts to sing to cover up the mistake, voice just as scratchy as an old record. the sunrise is loud today. _

  
  
  
  
  


george wakes up in his bed, shooting up straight as he pats the sheets around him. the pain in his skull isn’t as bad as it usually was after he drank, but the dull ache in his limbs from falling flat on his face made up for it. there’s a glass of water on his bedside table with some painkillers and a pink slip of paper.

_ ‘more piano music in the morning _ .’ he notes, picking up the paper after swallowing the pills and downing the glass. only his second day and he had already blacked out. he winces at the thought before inspecting the paper closely.

it laid face down, the intricate lines of a snarling boar staring at him - most likely a family crest. ‘ _ didn’t think i’d have to carry my boss’ son to bed after he got too drunk to walk, but here we are. stop by the stables and say hi some time - dave’ _ is written in neat handwriting on the other side, accompanied by a tiny scribbled crown next to the name. 

george groans - loudly - he hadn’t even drank that much yesterday, how embarrassing. breakfast that day tastes much better to his empty stomach. lucien sits across from him at his request, drinking a cup of coffee. 

“who’s playing the piano at dawn? it’s beautiful.” the question had been lingering in his head for quite a while, or as long as it could for the short days he’d been here. lucien simply quirks a brow at him, a very brief look of surprise passing over his eyes that george barely catches.

“the only piano on the estate is for show, young master. perhaps you are hearing things.” his tone suggests that george shouldn’t ask any more questions, leaving very little wiggle room. “maybe you mean the songbirds?”

george only frowns. the rest of breakfast is quiet.

he decides that he’ll investigate the sounds the next time he hears it, and maybe check out the aforementioned piano.

the stroll down to the stables is a nervous one - he remembers passing out and vaguely flirting with dave. how was he supposed to come back from that? usually passing out is saved for close friends, not strangers. before he can spend too much more time sulking he spots him - or he thinks he does, there aren’t  _ that _ many people who are absurdly tall. 

“dave?” his voice is hesitant when it escapes him, hand going to nervously clutch his other arm. the man turns around and george final gets a good, not-drunk look at him. 

strawberry blond hair that curled wildly to frame those same vivid eyes sticks out amongst the group he was with and a royal cape that bracketed his shoulders. it would’ve looked gaudy if not for how he carried himself. he’d probably also be wearing a crown to complete the look if not for how cheap it might’ve been.

“ah,  _ maître george, _ a  pleasure to see you that the grass hasn’t stained your skin,” dave’s smirk borders on a smile, pointed teeth poking through. his hand snaps out to gentle smack the chest of the boy nearest him to get his attention. “thomas, tub, meet the big man’s kid.”

george shifts his attention to the younger boys, noticing the difference between the two. the one he assumes is thomas is blond, just as freakishly tall as dave, and has a critical eye. ‘tub’ is shorter, around his own height, light brown hair that looks windswept no matter how many times he tries to style it. 

‘tub’ smiles at him, offering a gloved hand. “hello! my race name is tubbo, but the fam calls me toby! tommy’s my younger twin - fraternal, not identical.” his voice is light and laced with a familiar accent - the same accent coming from his own mouth. 

“race name?” george shifts in place, quirking an eyebrow. dave just laughs at him, smiling with his eyes. 

“we’re horse jockeys. in fact, you’re looking at the current  _ king of the tracks _ .” dave smiles smugly while pointing to himself, eyes glued to george. “race names are things the young blood have started bringing in, so don’t expect one from me.”

“ _ former _ king - and stop trying to impress the prat.” tommy spits, less malice in his eyes than his words. george just huffs, feeding into his fragile ego wouldn’t be the best idea.

dave’s head snaps to the teenager, jabbing a rough finger at him. “technoblade and i have won more races than years you’ve been  _ alive _ , you twig. you’re lucky i can’t race anymore.”

toby smiles at george sympathetically, diverting his attention away from the bickering. “sorry about this, they fight so often i’m surprised dave even still keeps tommy around. i’m training under him since tommy’s too tall now.”

he laughs, causing the bickering to cease as dave turns to him and smiles - thus ending the argument. tommy grumbles about being ignored once again and about ‘ _ what a beta move _ .” it was. 

george spends the rest of the day with the wild trio, meeting each of their respective horses and learning that his mother had been sponsoring dave and his horse since his first race. ever since he’s dominated the scoreboard unopposed but soon grew too tall to be able to race healthily. his mother still keeps him around though, to his own confusion. george never knew there was a weight limit for horse jockeys until tommy began ranting about it - complaining about how he was wasted talent and how it was a shame that his horse, Nutpig - a horrible misspelling coupled with shit handwriting on some documents that ended up sticking - wouldn’t be able to race again, mostly due to his possessiveness over his companion. they don’t respond when he asks about the piano music either, glossing over it and quickly move on. george pushes the unease away and moves on. 

the day ends quicker than they usually do and dave walks him home again - “ _ no need to have the big man upset ‘cause you broke a bone walking home.”  _ \- and there’s a tense air between them before he ultimately leaves with his cape swishing gently as he went.

george doesn’t sleep that night, opting to lay in bed and daydream. he feels alive for the first time in a while; who knew that spending time with other people his age outside of work would feel so nice. 

at four (4) a.m. he hears the soft piano beginning to build up as the sun cracked a glance at earth. the view is much less appealing without his glasses - inky sky beginning to bleed tainted yellows rather than the explosive colors he’s used to. maybe lucien was right; the songbirds just sounded eerily like an old piano and exquisite french and the new silence was getting to him.

when he looks to the many window sills he tries to ignore the faint feeling in his stomach.

  
  


there aren’t any birds.

“am i going mental? what the hell?” his voice quivers slightly as he pulls a new shirt over his head and stares at the window sill as more and more french spills into his already too full skull. there’s a grainy smoke to the voice and it’s piano - either a man or a woman with a  _ very  _ low voice - that almost makes it sound like an old record if not for the pauses and dips in their voice that are far too  _ human _ to be a recording. a published recording at that. 

he pulls some socks and a pair of shorts on before shuffling out of his room. maybe he wasn’t mental and the lack of sleep had just gotten to him instead. it was only his fourth day and he already felt like he was going to burst at the seams. 

the music leads him down the hallways and the stairs, beckoning him closer and closer as it gets louder in his ears. the grainy quality simmers into crystal clear vowels - or as clear as french could be to him - when he stops in front of the largest doorway he’d ever seen. 

it was most definitely a grand entrance, with the golden plaque on its frame signifying it as the ballroom. he wasn’t aware the château had a ballroom till now. the handles of the door are heavy and dwarf his hands. the metal bites the warm skin with vigor as he paused. 

at every mention of the piano he’d been brushed off and ignored like some sort of petulant child. the thought angers him - why hadn’t anyone just been able to give him a straight answer? _ ‘oh one of the servants likes to play the piano at dawn’ _ or a  _ ‘lucien plays old records while he makes his morning coffee’ _ would have sufficed, would’ve stuffed his curiosity and kicked it to boot. instead, everyone pushed the topic away like a carcass and avoided the topic. 

so why was he hesitating when his questions could just be answered by opening the door? 

he shakes his head and shoves the heavy doors open and is met with blinding sunlight. the far window faces the east and the sun is as relentless as it always is. it opens up over parts of the property he had yet to explore - a lush garden encapsulating a statue of a sleeping lion - and floods the room with reds and oranges spilling onto the floor like knocked over cans of paint. 

then he sees it -  _ him _ . 

a broad back and blond hair tied back with a white ribbon over a blue tailcoat with a voice as smooth as irish whiskey. the design of it is older than anything he’s seen outside of history books with ruffled cuffs he can make out when his hands move to strike keys further from his core. the voice is strongest from where the man sits with his back to george at an antique piano. a jeweled crown sits atop his head - crooked where it sat, almost weeping atop the hair weaved with gold. 

_ “bel oiseau bleu, je continuerai d'attendre que tes plumes tombent à l'aube, pour enfin t'embrasser à nouveau sous les lauriers sacrés et le pin doré-” _

the voice stops, hands resting on the keys as the vowels get stuck in his throat. george steps closer until he’s only feet away, holding his breath when the sound halts.

_ ‘keep going,’ _ he wants to say, ‘ _ please don’t ever stop.’ _ the second the music pauses he feels his chest ache something fierce. until then he’d never cared for music in the way he did right now, standing behind a mysterious man in blue. he feels like he’s been chasing this moment his whole life, like everything has been leading up to this moment - this  _ meeting _ . 

he turns around to face george, shifting ever so slowly in place as if he never wanted to look away from the piano - feared what he would see, even. george sees then the white masquerade mask resting on his face as if it was part of his skin, only his blazing eyes visible beneath it. gorgeous emerald greens stare at him, soft as silk. 

his voice is much scratchier when he speaks than when he sings - he notes - as if it had been burned away with fire. the sound makes george’s heart race and sets his heart on fire while his head sings. any words he even could say remain trapped beneath his tongue.

a single name drips from the blond man’s pink lips, twisting on his tongue and pushes past sharp teeth. it quivers with hope and fear and hangs in the air between them.

  
  
  
  


“ _ wilbur? _ ”

  
  



End file.
